


Down Here With the Rest of Us

by sc010f



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Dementia, Dirty Talk, Gunplay, M/M, Minor Character Death, Power Dynamics, Psychologically messed up people, Unhealthy Relationships, past Bond/Vesper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:40:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Q wakes up, his head hurts and his mobile is ringing, its jangle piercing the cold fog of his sleep. </p><p>Bond is gone; the sheets are rumpled and still warm, smelling of him, and on his mobile Tanner is shouting at him to get his arse into the office because Syria's on fire. Again. </p><p><em>Yes,</em> he thinks. It <em>is</em> enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down Here With the Rest of Us

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warnings in the tags: this is not an example of a healthy relationship or healthy coping mechanisms.

Title: Down with the Rest of Us

They're fucked. Q freezes for an instant, watches the lights flicker, the information chasing across the monitors. M hisses, an indrawn breath that, if he'd been a lesser man, would have been a curse. Q can feel Moneypenny flinch and tense behind him. 

_They've been blown._

The report of a gun roars in his ear and in the monitors across the entire lab. In the dim light of the security cameras, they can see the muzzle flare. Another and another.

Hours away, time zones apart, Bond's hands are bloody, a body sags. Q can see the darkening stain spreading across the pavement. Bond staggers to his feet. The blood isn't his, and Q allows himself a breath. At Bond's feet, their informant convulses, stills. A knife glints in dim lighting, and their assailant crumples. Dimly, Q can hear the gurgle of breath as the woman drowns in her blood.

Then, over the speakers, Bond's voice is a rasp. 

"Shit. The networks have been blown. Abort."

M snaps into his microphone. "That's a negative, Bond. We do not abort."

"The network's blown. We're blown. Intel, Q. The fucking _intel_ was bad. What the _fuck_ …"

Q closes his eyes against the lights: pinpoints of color, the white fluorescent flare. 

_Think._

Time ticks against him. 

"Q!"

"007, abort. That's an order."

"Q."

"Radestsky's still alive," Q responds. "If you extract him, Voyokov won't be able to come after him."

M glares at Q, an empty threat – Q knows what would happen if M chucked him out. 

Static flickers across the comms.

"Fuck," Bond mutters in his ear. 

"Do it," M snaps. He throws his earpiece on the desk and stalks from the room. Moneypenny turns and follows him out, her stilettos clicking loudly on the poured concrete. 

Q breathes. _In. Out._

"There's a main road thirty meters from your current location. I'm arranging for a car," he says.

Bond grunts in acknowledgement. 

Q watches him through the security cameras, staring at the grainy image of the rain washing the blood from the alley.

* * *

The debriefing thirty-six hours later descends into shouting four minutes in. 

_Fucking intel failures._

Ten minutes later, Bond has thrown down his report and risen, ready to fling himself from the conference room. He jostles Q, who's risen with him, nearly sending him against the wall. 

Q freezes. 

Bond stops. The moment catches. 

He leans into Q. 

"Now," he says. 

_Now._

* * *

The gun is body-warm against Q's jaw. Pressed any harder and he knows the bone would shatter. As it is, he'll bruise, matching the marks on his neck where Bond's teeth have sunk into the tender flesh. 

_This is not right,_ his mind screams. Instead, his body presses into Bond's.

Bond's free hand is cold, flicking at his shirt buttons, pulling the shirt from his trousers. He hisses at the contact of cold against warm stomach.

"Be quiet," Bond rasps, raising his mouth from his neck. "Make any sound and I'll stop. Do you want me to stop?"

_Never._

Bond draws the gun up from his jaw, tracing the line of bone and flesh, and spins, faster than he can track, shoving him against the wall – hard brick tearing at the back of his cardigan, his skull. Bond's free hand is tearing at Q's flies, and Q thinks, with the remains of his sanity, that nobody should be this deft, this _skillful_.

He gasps as Bond's hand, now warmed from Q's skin, shoves down his trousers and his pants, grabs at his cock, squeezes. 

"Oh, that pretty, pretty mouth," Bond murmurs. "How I'd love to see those lips wrapped around my cock."

Q wants to moan, but if he makes a sound, it'll all stop, and Q's body is needy, desperate for the contact. 

"You'd make such lovely moans around it, wouldn't you?" Bond continues. "Yes, I think you rather would."

The gun glides to Q's mouth. 

"Let's see what that mouth can do, shall we?"

The gun is in Q's mouth, tasting of metal and powder. 

"Oh yes," Bond says. His forehead is pressed to Q's, the hand on his cock squeezing, releasing, unforgiving. "I want this. I want to watch you suck it. Want to watch you come from my gun in your mouth and my hand on your cock. Do you want that? Of course you do. I can feel it, feel how much your greedy little mouth wants it, wishes it was my cock. I can feel how your cock is leaking over my hand. Yes, _boy_ , you want this."

Bond's breath is hot on Q's cheek, his hand hard on his cock, calluses scraping as he pulls the foreskin down. The gun is warm in his mouth, Bond's body hard on his, his cock pressing against Q's thigh. The brick behind him is cold, rough, scraping flesh from his hands as he grasps it for stability. He knows the rules. No hands; he raises his hands and it stops.

Q's mind is screaming, his body aflame. 

"Do it," Bond growls at him, thrusting against Q's thigh, squeezing his cock brutally. 

The gun slides in Q's mouth, and his world narrows to the wall, the gun, Bond's breath, Bond's hand, thumb sliding hard and rough over his glans, and then he explodes in blinding white – so intense it's painful and he may be shouting, but that may not be him, he can't tell, can't _process_ , as the world fades – spots of grey and black as he sags back against something hard and rough. The wall.

Bond's hand is warm against his softening cock. Gentle as he tucks him back in. 

"Hush," he whispers. "Hush."

The gun slides from Q's mouth, a hot trail of saliva against his jaw and cheek. 

"Let go," Bond orders, and Q buckles; the pavement is hard against his knees, jarring. 

_Yes, there._

Bond's hand, the hand that held his cock, the hand that smells of sweat and Q's come, still sticky, twists in his hair. 

"I should make you suck me off here, shouldn't I?" Bond asks. 

Q cannot help the moan that escapes him. 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Greedy boy." Q wishes he was imaging the fondness he can hear in his voice. His eyes are sliding closed, and Bond tightens his grip. 

"No, I don't think so," Bond says. 

The hand falls away from his hair. Q falls forward, his forehead brushing Bond's leg; his palms hit the ground with jarring force – pain shoot through his wrists to his elbows.

"Not yet, I think," Bond says. 

"Please." Q is surprised he has voice at all to beg. 

"No," Bond snaps. "Tonight I want you in my bed. On my floor. On all fours, your arse in the air, my come dripping down your pretty white thigh while you beg for me to make you come again. Would you like that, boy?"

Q squeezes his eyes shut, gulps for air, cold bursts in his chest. Beyond them, outside the alleyway, people are living: walking with wives, girlfriends, lovers, children. Outside is the fantasy of real life. In the alleyway is the reality of Bond's trouser leg against his cheek, the uneven press of pavement against his hands and knees. 

"Come on," Bond says, his hand tangling in Q's hair again. "Beautiful boy. We're going home."

_Home._

* * *

Home is the burn of carpet against Q's knees. 

Home is the bruising of Bond's fingers on his hips as he fucks into him. 

Home is the twist of Bond's hand in his hair. 

Home is the weight of _James_ on his back as his legs give way and he all but falls to the floor, pinning Q beneath him.

Home is James's breath hot on his shoulder, the seeping wetness between his thighs. The sticking of their bodies. 

It's the sudden stillness, the chill as James withdraws, rises, makes for the shower – his shirt and jacket still hanging from him, trousers and pants sagging. Q rests his head against the carpeting of the sitting room. 

_Let me._

The shower is steaming by the time Q makes it to the bathroom. James is leaning against the tiles, head pillowed on his arm. His other hand is clenched against the tiles, knuckles standing white. 

His body is hot against Q's. 

"She died."

"I saw," Q says.

"She drowned in her own blood."

Q knows better than to ask if he loved her. Love would have required a connection, a release beyond the physical. Love would have required James to…

Q leans his head on James's shoulder. 

"I know."

"Radetsky's wife. They were friends. She watched the kids. The daughter let her in." James shakes his head. "Radestsky found them. The kids. His wife. Christ."

Q's hand follows the length of James' arm. Grasps his hand. 

_I know. I see everything you do. More._

He shifts and feels the burn of cock, the slide of spunk trailing down his thighs. The marks James leaves on him.

* * *

In bed, sheets damp, he watches James riding his cock, sweat and water sliding down his chest. James only lets Q fuck him when it's gone all wrong, and even now, he's in control, driving himself down on Q's cock, his lip caught between his teeth – bloodless from the pressure.

In silence Bond fucks himself. Q holds him, watches him. Holds him. 

_What would you say?_

Bond's hand fists his own cock and he comes, sudden and hot. Clenches around Q who follows, helpless. 

The sheets are tangled around their legs. 

_Please._

* * *

The grey dawn hangs over them – sickly as the clouds race across the sky. Rain spatters indifferently on the window. Q pulls on a sock. 

_Are you… No, stupid question, of course you're not._

It's no secret that Bond has a penchant for skinny, dark-haired types, but Q's practical. He knows better than to ask for more than what was given. Knows so much more has been given for less.

Bond's been given a week, but 002's in Jordan, 009 in Korea, 004 is bringing a family of Copts through Syria, an extraction of their networks as the situation fluctuates. 

_See you at the office?_

_Thanks for the fuck?_

_Always a pleasure?_

_Get some rest?_

Bond's back is stiff as he pours coffee. 

Q thinks, not for the first time, that he's a coward. That perhaps they both are.

* * *

Bond strides through Q branch like he owns it. Like he owns Q. 

Q wants to _kill _him.__

"What have you got for me this time?" Bond asks, his smile flashing against the darkened monitors. 

"Gun. Radio. Transponder. Car keys."

"Oh, Q, how disappointing."

"Life, 007, is _full_ of disappointments."

Bond leans closer; Q can feel the head bleeding through his suit, smell _him_.

"Surely you can do better when your back's against the wall," Bond whispers, pressing himself against Q. "In fact, I _know_ you can do better. Can't you?"

* * *

When Q lets himself into his own house – _his parent's house, not his home_ – he smells the ripe rubbish, the dust. He hasn't been in here in days. 

When Bond is between missions, when it's not the quick fucks, the nights that bleed over into days, Q lives in a ramshackle house in Earlsfield. It's not the house Q grew up in – that house, long gone, was razed for the Westway. But by then Q was gone, only to return to ailing parents in a disintegrating neighborhood, a house that smelled of cabbage and bore the marks of the previous owners: stains of dog shit on the carpeting in the sitting room, cracked walls, peeling paper, knocking pipes. 

This house brought him back to them, and he'd lived there with his parents, working all the hours God made to care for them – hiring first workmen to replace the carpets and paper, fix the blocked-up toilet on the first floor, then an in-home aide, not on NHS, to care for his father and then his mother as they wasted away while he studied, worked, spent days and nights watching lines of code dance. 

Because lines of code don't not recognize you. Lines of code don't cough long streams of yellow mucus as the cancer tears itself into lungs.

_You aren't home enough._

_Your father is dying._

_Your mother barely recognizes you._

_Mrs Gainsborough takes perfectly good care of them._

Q hangs his keys on the hook by the door. The paper is fresh, hung only two years ago. The carpet still smells new. Q thinks he should try to sell the place, but like so many things, it's too late. 

"Is that you?"

His mum drifts into the front hallway.

"George?" she asks. 

Q sighs. 

"No, Mum. It's me," he says, leaning down to kiss her dry cheek. "You should be in bed. It's late. I'm sorry I'm late."

"I was waiting for your father. He's late again."

"He's not coming home, Mum. Remember?"

"No… Where is he?" His mother begins to flutter her hands, clinging to the edge of his cardigan. 

"He's in hospital, Mum. Remember? We're going tomorrow to see him. I promised to take you there," Q lies. Eighteen months months ago, Q had taken enough leave time to insure his father was cremated properly, interred quietly. Eighteen months ago, he'd been called from his father's cremation to sit in the National Gallery.

Q waits. Recognition dawns, fades.

His mother goes off on a different tack.

"Your sister was here today. She said she was sorry she missed you."

Q's sister lives in America. 

"Great, Mum! Shouldn't you be in bed?"

Mrs Gainsborough saves him, hurrying down the stairs in her maroon scrubs. 

"Oh, you're home," she says to Q. "How long this time?"

"A few days. Work," Q explains, feeling inexplicably like a teenager caught sneaking into his own home after curfew. 

Mrs Gainsborough draws up all five foot two of herself. 

"Of course, dear," she says to Q. "Come along," she says to his mum. 

"How is she?" Q asks. 

Mrs Gainsborough turns from shepherding his mum up the stairs. 

"We had a bad day. But we're doing better. You'll remember of course that tomorrow I'm off for the weekend. To see my granddaughter. In Devon."

"Of course."

Q had forgotten. He leans against the closed door and wonders if he'd better just return to the office. Find someone else to watch his mum for the next forty-eight hours.

_Can't you handle forty-eight hours?_

_Are you so weak?_

He pulls off his cardigan, follows his mother and Mrs Gainsborough upstairs. Falls on his bed, narrow and dusty; the bruises on his hips catch as he rolls over and he flinches.

* * *

Forty-eight hours later and he's on the Central Line, breathing in the stink of the Underground, of humanity, of the chaos beyond the chaos of his house. _Not home_. The chaos beyond is the chaos he loves, the kind he revels in. This is the chaos he brings to order, the chaos he reads. The chaos within - his mother's confusion, her deep sadness, her vacant non-recognition - these tear at his heart and leave him exhausted, a tight, icy fist in his chest. 

Forty-nine hours later and he's glaring at Bond's shit eating grin over the green lights of the Walther. 

"Don't break it, 007," he says. Turns away.

Bond catches his wrist and Q spins back, faster than anticipated, and for once, once in his life, he gets the drop on James fucking Bond. Has his wrist up his back. His free hand slaps down on the Walther.

"Don't," he hisses in Bond's ear. The ice in his chest melts. His hips press against Bond's arse. 

Christ, he's hard. 

"Oh really?" Bond chuckles and before he knows it, he's on his back, bent double against the lab table, the Walther pressing against his jaw. "Why Q, I thought you had more of a care for the security cameras." Bond's free hand is on his throat. He can't breathe. 

_Yes. This. Please._

He watches Bond's eyes: dangerous, amused, aroused. Q fights against the spots forming on his field of vision.

His mobile rings, loud in the empty space. 

Bond swears and drops his hands. Q crumples to the floor, gasping for breath, scrabbling for the phone.

"Mrs Gainsborough… Yes. Yes. Yes. I'm on my way."

Bond helps him up. Q pushes him aside. A taxi will be too slow; he wonders if he can commandeer a car from the motor pool. 

"Q?"

He barely spares a glance for 007. He's gone, nearly mowing Tanner down as he runs for the door.

* * *

This time the chaos bleeds through. His mother looks even smaller beneath the tented sheet. She hasn't been his mum for years. 

"I turned my back for a minute to close the door," Mrs Gainsborough is saying. "She missed the step."

Q nods. 

"Be sure to send me an updated bill," he says. 

She draws herself up. Q wonders what more she expected. Three years with his mother after his father died? Hardly one of the family, was she?

_She saw her every day._

_Knew her better than you did, didn't she?_

"You… she liked you. Thank you," Q manages. 

Mrs Gainsborough does not wait to watch his mother die. 

Q sits with her for what feels like a long time after the machines have stopped, wishes he remembered how to cry, decides to sell the house. Before they take her away, he has made an appointment with a realtor, given his second-in-command instructions for the evac team to extract 008, and made sure Mrs Gainsborough has been compensated appropriately for her work.

* * *

When he returns to Earlsfield, hours later, he finds Bond sitting on his doorstep. 

"I'm sorry about your mother," he says quietly as Q lets himself into his house. Not his house. 

"Thank you."

* * *

Forty minutes later, he is fucking Bond brutally against the door of his old room. Not his room. Downstairs, the takeaway congeals in its carrier. The house is painfully empty to Q as he snarls into Bond's neck.

Bond is silent as Q thrusts against him, knowing the metal of his zipper will leave marks on Bond's arse and thighs. He is silent as Q pins his wrists against the door. Q can feel the bones of Bond's wrists shifting under his hands. Q hopes Bond will fight back, throw him off. He waits for the snap of bone and the flare of pain. 

Bond smells of dry cleaning fluids and shampoo and his deodorant. He doesn't make a sound as Q fucks him, as he lets Q take him, hard and hot. He's loose only because Q took the moments to stretch him, a basic courtesy. Of course Bond's brought lube. 

_Sure of yourself, aren't you?_

Q wants to crawl into Bond, to break him, to feel him go limp underneath his hands as he comes. Or have Bond break him. It doesn't matter. 

_Futile._

Q pulls out, still hard, and stumbles away, not bothering to rezip. He lies down on his bed, faces the wall.

"Go home, Bond."

* * *

He wakes to find James dozing against the door.

The ice in his chest that formed when his mobile rang thirty-five hours ago tightens. 

"Unless you plan on presenting yourself as my lawyer, I suggest you leave, Bond. The estate agent will be here at ten."

Bond turns his head and blinks at Q.

"Go home, Bond."

Bond stands. 

"There's a bottle of scotch downstairs," he replies. "You might need it."

Q glares at him. 

"Unlike some," he snaps, "I don't tend to look for solutions in the bottom of a bottle."

Bond doesn't reply; Q turns his back to him. 

Bond doesn't leave.

* * *

Q isn't stupid. 

Just because he prefers it when Bond holds a knife to his throat and fucks him against the hood of his car in the car park, his hands slipping sweaty against the metal, that doesn't make him weak. Both of them know it doesn't mean anything; both of them know it's a release of tension, of stress. 

He's not an idiot. He knows what the words _self-destructive_ mean. He doesn't believe he should drink and be armed, and yes, thank you, he _is_ armed. He's not _completely _helpless.__

__He knows he should probably find a place to live that isn't a grubby hotel behind King's Cross._ _

__He knows he should move his things from the house in Earlsfield._ _

__Instead, he works._ _

__Because the work is what matters. It's what he can control. It's the chaos he breathes, the chaos he loves._ _

__He argues with M, butts heads with Tanner, snarks at Moneypenny._ _

__He runs his agents, saves lives, ends others._ _

__And occasionally Bond allows him a fuck._ _

__Food._ _

__Sex._ _

__Rest, occasionally._ _

___Needs must,_ he thinks._ _

* * *

__And perhaps that will have to be enough when he comes over Bond's sheets, sobbing into the mattress when Bond thrusts three fingers into his arse, growling filthy things into his ear._ _

__In the aftermath, as he listens to Bond showering, he wonders if he's missed something._ _

__"Do you think we've missed something?" he asks when Bond emerges._ _

__"Missed something? You've lost me, Q."_ _

__"Is this what it is?" Q asks. It's the haze of pain and the aftershocks of orgasm that make him do it, he tells himself. "Food? Sex? Sleep? Work?"_ _

__Bond runs a towel through his hair. He is silent for a moment._ _

__"Go to sleep, Q," he says. He crawls into his bed, folds himself around Q, and holds him. Then: "Sometimes it has to be. This job, this life. It tears away your soul."_ _

__"You told _her_ that, once." If Bond's surprised that Q knows this, he doesn't betray it. "I'm not her."_ _

__"I don't want you to be," Bond says after a long pause._ _

__Q shifts, the sheets slide smooth against him. He cannot decide if he has a right to feel this comfortable. He wonders if Bond will shove him out of the bed for this. More have been killed for less._ _

__"And what do you want me to be?" Q asks._ _

__Bond doesn't answer. Q wonders if he's fallen asleep._ _

__"I have no expectations of you," Bond says. "What you give me, I will take and keep taking, even after you cry for mercy. It's who I am. But until then…"_ _

__Q is silent for a long time. The fist of ice in his chest that's been there for as long as he can remember begins to melt, and a sob escapes, and he feels like his very soul is being torn apart. Bond's arms are warm, his heartbeat a steady rhythm._ _

__He sleeps. The darkness is hard, but this time, for the first time, it is silent._ _

__When Q wakes up, his head hurts and his mobile is ringing, its jangle piercing the cold fog of his sleep._ _

__Bond is gone; the sheets are rumpled and still warm, smelling of him, and on his mobile Tanner is shouting at him to get his arse into the office because Syria's on fire. Again._ _

__Thirty minutes later, the doors to Q branch hiss open before him, a cold rush of air pulling itself around him. Inside is perfect chaos. Q smiles and thrills to the chatter of work, of urgency._ _

___Yes,_ he thinks. It _is_ enough._ _

**Author's Note:**

> The 007 franchise does not belong to me. A multitude of thanks go to Bluestocking79, Mazarin221b, and PJ and Mundungus42 especially for allowing me to pelt them with draft upon draft upon draft of this.


End file.
